


Dancer and Stage

by dramatricks



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatricks/pseuds/dramatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You lean down until your lips are millimeters away from hers; she tips her head up and you back away, chuckling when she whines (but only a little.  Even in bed she stays badass, nonchalant.) “Lesson one,” you breathe, and she shivers as air kisses her mouth.  “Awareness of space.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancer and Stage

“Teach me about dancing.”

She’s asked you this about three times before, but never at a time like _this_.  Not when she’s lying naked next to you, tan skin glistening with sweat and eyes still hooded and dilated with her need.  You think it’s cute that she wants to “learn,” because she’s one of the four – well, three, now that Matt’s gone – dancers in glee.  You both know that you’re the best of all of them; she says that when you dance it’s “sex on legs,” and that always makes you smile.

But you think, as you tilt your head to look down at her, your body warm and wet and flush with hers, that perhaps… a lesson or two would be nice… _especially_ at a time like this.  Because what _is_ a dancer, exactly, except sometimes a master of improvisation?

You roll so that you’re on top of her, and her eyes widen.  She pushes against your shoulders even as she licks her lips, trying to switch your positions, but in one swift move you have her pinned, wrists above her head, and you smirk.

You lean down until your lips are millimeters away from hers; she tips her head up and you back away, chuckling when she whines (but only a little.  Even in bed she stays badass, nonchalant.) “Lesson one,” you breathe, and she shivers as air kisses her mouth.  “Awareness of space.”

Space.  Knowing where you are, where your partner is at all times. Knowing the limits of that space, testing it, keeping it, _breaking_ it.

You are in her space, and she trembles as your gazes stay locked.  You relish the power, for however brief you know you’ll have it.

You hover over her for the smallest of moments before capturing her mouth with your own.  Space melts into nothingness, as it always does with the two of you, as it always has, ever since you were eight years old.  Even before you were doing _this_ with her, it was always your hand in hers, or her arm around your waist, your pinkies linked together sometimes tight enough for knuckles to turn white.

Here, there is no space.  And that’s just the way you want it (and the way she needs it, but she doesn’t tell you that and you don’t bring it up).

Your lips leave hers and she sighs, mouth quirking up into a lazy smile when she realizes you aren’t finished, because you’ve moved to her neck, then to her shoulder, then the valley between her breasts, a trail of open-mouthed kisses awakening you both into readiness for round… well, you’ve lost count.  You’d fought which had resulted in nearly a week of no contact, and now, neither one of you has any intention of stopping.

Your tongue finds one nipple, swirling and coaxing it to hardness; she shivers just as you lightly bite it with your teeth.  When she hisses at the combination of pain and pleasure you grin before moving on to the next one, repeating your action.  You trace the underside of her breasts with the tip of your tongue then stop to lovingly kiss the skin there, opening your mouth and humming the word into her.

“Lesson two:  body.”

Body.  _The instrument of dance_.

After 9 years of friendship, two years of “Sex is not dating,” and one year of “okay, maybe it _is_ dating,” you know her body well, but your mouth, your tongue, your hands, your fingertips discover something new each time you touch her.  You file every new fact away in your mind; people may call you stupid but you know what things are most important to you.

Like the way her nipples can be over stimulated, and eventually she’ll wrench your mouth away with a growl, making you smirk again and wink at her.  The way she writhes underneath you when you kiss and lick every point of the appendectomy scar that has been there since she was eleven. You wish you could count and memorize every goose bump that rises on her skin with every lave of your tongue; you wish you had a way to watch her and pleasure her at the same time, because there’s nothing more you love than seeing her eyes roll back in her head and knowing that _you_ did that – and no one else ever will.

Her arms loop over your back, holding you to her; you turn your head and kiss her wrist, the one she sprained at Cheerios practice when you were fourteen.  She wore a splint for a day and a half before throwing it off in disgust and continued practice as usual, barely wincing.  Only when you were sitting on her bed holding a bag of ice to her wrist did she allow tears of pain to leak out.  You run your tongue along the artery there and feel her pulsing: her blood, her life.  It sings.  It _dances_.

Her hips are thin, her ass perfect as you slide your hands underneath and lift her into you; that same tan skin stretches tight and muscular over thighs and hipbones and for a moment you do something that she smiles and describes as “so very _you_ ”: you nestle your cheek on her hip and just breathe in the scent of _her_ , that you know better than anything in the world.  But then, the sweet moment passes and you go back to leaving sharp nips and soothing licks against her hipbone until you can see the marks – _your_ marks – coming to the surface.  It spurs you on, harder, and you can hear her gasp and moan as she squirms underneath you.

You look up until you find her eyes once more; they’re sparkling with want as you tip your chin and she slides upward on the bed so you can slide down, settling between her legs.  It’s a running joke that you have to do this so your legs aren’t dangling off the edge of her bed, but it works because when you’re _there_ you can look up at her and see what you do to her, and really, it’s the best thing you can imagine, as your index and middle finger dip and find wetness.

Her back arches, her hips move against your fingers and you tuck your head against your hand, watching her.  Her eyes are no longer open; they are screwed shut against your movements, her mouth working soundlessly.  That lasts for a second, because your index finger traces along her clit and she jerks against you with a moan, bringing you to lesson three.

“Harmony.”

_Consistent, orderly, or pleasing arrangement of parts_.

You whisper now, because anything else would disturb this dance you are sharing, and you know that you’re nearing its completion. You revel in the harmony that you and she have together, a harmony that you’ve perfected after so long together but that really was in place for the very first time.  You were both fifteen; you were shy and unsure, she was cocky and assertive even as she fumbled.  And maybe it took a few tries to get it right, but you were _not_ complaining, and you’re pretty sure she wasn’t either.

And now you’ve perfected it, this call-and-response of motion and sound: the slick steady stroke of your fingers coupled with gasp and whimper, words at first unintelligible until she grunts low in her throat.

“Dammit, Britt, _fuck me_.”

And ordinarily you’d make her wait, you might even make her beg a little (because as sweet as everyone thinks you are, there’s one who swears up and down that you’ve got a sadistic streak), but it’s been a _week_ and you’ve both missed this, so you just laugh and press a kiss to the inside of her left thigh before biting down just as you slide three fingers inside.

Tension.

_Physical connection, push and pull, between two partners._

Her groan is loud, shattering as she clenches around your fingers; you hold yourself still until her back comes to rest on the bed again.  You watch her, watch the muscles of her neck tighten as she struggles to breathe, a concentrated wrinkle to her forehead and her nose scrunched in a way that you would never tell her you find utterly adorable – and a little sexy. She blinks when she realizes your fingers are slack, unmoving; her eyes open and she glares down at you before pulling back only to grind against you, and your lips twist into a grin as you begin to thrust.

You think, then, as you feel her grow wetter on your hand, your wrist and her body moving together in perfect time, about how your relationship has always been this way: this constant push-and-pull from two seemingly opposing forces.  You’re like magnets: turn them one way, and you might repel each other.  But a simple turn in the other direction, and once again you’re left with that awareness of space, the knowledge that one cannot exist without the other, that when lips meet lips and fingers meet body and her heart beats next to yours, there aren’t two at all.

There’s just one.

But she wants more; you can tell by the way the sweat is starting to bead on her forehead and the way her moans are reaching a crescendo.  You know that you’re set to enter into the most important part of the dance with her and you want to be there, fully; you want to feel it, you want to _be_ it, you want to _taste_ it as she lets go…

She lets out a frustrated sigh when you pull out, her fist thumping uselessly against the pillows and you can’t help but laugh at her again.

“Bitch,” she mutters at you, but it’s half-hearted, because she knows what you’re about to do, if the way her legs hook over your shoulders are any indication.

Rhythm.

_Timed movement through space._

You breathe in deeply; your thumb finds her clit and slowly, so slowly you slip inside her with your tongue, and now _you’re_ the one that’s moaning at how hot and wet she is for _you_ , and sometimes you still can’t believe your luck, can’t fathom that Santana Lopez is aching and wanting for _you_.

You quickly find the usual rhythm with her: your tongue thrusting deeper and deeper as your thumb moves in tight circles and Santana bears down against your mouth.  You drape one arm across her belly to hold her, reaching up until your hand closes around her breast and you roll her nipple in between your thumb and forefinger, coaxing it to hardness.

It’s sensory overload, every time you dance, and this is no different: the way she feels, the way she sounds, the way she _tastes_.  Like salt and rain and fights and her taking you to see the ducks at the park (which she will never admit to anyone that she does). She sounds like love and lust and frustration and tenderness, and she moves like grace, a dancer to music of her own; and it doesn’t matter to you one bit that her heels are digging into your back and her nails are digging into your scalp, because it’s _Santana_ and you are _Brittany_ and everything is as it should be.

You feel your own body tightening as you curl your tongue inside her, stroking the ridges you find there and you can’t watch her anymore, but you know, you can hear that crescendo again, that symphony of sighs and whimpers and words that neither of you can make sense of, and you know she’s close.  Your favorite part of the dance.

Climax.

_The most intense or highest point in the resolution of choreography_.

You’ve choreographed this well, this routine that you have with Santana; you’ve learned through trial and error just how to coax the best performance from her, and you do it now.  Your fingers, your tongue work together as you pinch her nipple, press the base of your thumb to her clit, draw out your tongue and then thrust back in with all the force you can.

Like a ballet dancer her legs grow taut, her back bows up and her head is thrown backward as she comes with a silent scream; you feel her wash over your tongue into your mouth and you taste greedily, wanting _all_ of her.  She pulses around your tongue, fluttering, the intensity fading until you can’t feel anything anymore, and there’s a sad twinge in your heart at the loss of it.  You draw out, giving a playful lick to her clit just to feel her jerk and hear her hiss disapproval; you shake your head and bestow a last kiss on the most intimate part of her before you crawl back up the bed to once again lie flush with her.

She captures your face in her hands and she kisses you fully, not even caring that she can taste herself on you (you secretly think she likes it).  Her breathing is ragged but she kisses you anyway, pulling away to take in air before diving right back in, and finally you pull away and lie down on the pillows, coaxing her to lie with her head on your chest.

“Fuck, B,” she manages to say, and you smile, reaching down until your hand finds hers and you entwine your pinkies together.

Physical connection.

_A dance connection by means of physical contact. **Body contact.**_

She reaches down to pull the covers over you both, even though the room seems hot to you, too hot.  But she tilts up and kisses your chin, and almost shyly Santana whispers, “I love you.”

You squeeze her in your arms as you murmur it in return, and then she sounds like her badass self as she says, “You should give me more dance lessons tomorrow.”

You think about it as sleep overtakes you both, even though you already know the answer.

Brittany.

Santana.

Santana and Brittany.

She is your stage, and you’re always more than happy to just… dance.


End file.
